


My Husband is Crabby

by greenfrost



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Feeding, Food Kink, Food Play, Hannibal married Will, Housewife!Hannibal, M/M, Murder Husbands, Murder Husbands all loved up, Someone calls someone Boy, Someone calls someone Daddy, Spoiled Will Graham, Will is an FBI Professor, Will makes leaps in solving the crime, Will married Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27721286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfrost/pseuds/greenfrost
Summary: Will is having a crabby day because people who are not his husband (Jack and FBI students) are being people who are not his husband. Domestic fluff, Day in the (Murder Husbands) life where Will is a spoiled baby (5 years of being married to Hannibal will do that to a man) and Hannibal, of course, worships him. A kink was activated because someone broke a rule. There's a Roald Dahl short story cameo. They love each other soft and hard.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	My Husband is Crabby

I’m in my afternoon class, giving a very thorough, very scathing open appraisal of my students’ papers. Everyone had disappointed, even the ones who I thought would deliver. The most decent paper I could grade was a B. I pick one out at random, did not mention the author and immediately, I find an erring statement. My daughter could make a better analysis than this and she’s barely in med school. If this keeps up, I don’t think I could muster an ounce of compassion to pass them, how could I, when they cannot even properly examine the Diathesis-Stress Model in 5,000 words? 

I was reading a particularly atrocious section when I feel my table vibrate. I pause. Jack Crawford’s name flashes on my phone’s screen. I ignore it and wait for it to run its course. The room did not move and held its breath and I know they are hopeful that Professor/Agent Graham would just answer the call, forget about their terrible paper and order a class-wide revision.

The interruption stops and I open my mouth to continue but then Jack calls again and I know I’m not going to get away until either I answer or wait for him to barge in. He’s just in the next building, it would only take ten minutes, five if he was feeling very spry. My class is very familiar with a Jack Crawford, everyone-get-the-hell-out-of-the-room ambush. I imagine one of them must be saying a fervent prayer for that very thing.

So, I had to step out and respond. Jack immediately gives orders to go to the address that he already sent via text message. I need to confirm if the murder is a run-of-the-mill domestic or the Chesapeake Ripper or from one of Baltimore’s serial killer set.

I want to say that it is definitely not the Chesapeake Ripper because, due to a domestic dispute, said Ripper is barred from serial-killing until further notice. But since Jack had rudely interrupted my class, I’m not up to sharing that information.

 _Dismiss your class early, you only got fifteen minutes left anyway,_ he says, tone upbeat, a poor attempt at making me feel optimistic. Like I should be thankful that I have been bestowed an early dismissal from class. I hold back a retort. That valuable time could have been used to set my student’s papers on fire. It would have made a small but suitable effigy for their ineptitude.

Jack says it’d just take an hour of my time and I’d be on my merry way. _Thank you, you’re a hero,_ Jack says in that tone that he thought would rally me good but it just sounds supercilious. He might as well have said, _Who’s Jack’s good boy? There’s Jack’s boy. Now go solve crimes for Jackie. There’s a good boy._

I step back to a buzzing, murmuring class. I loudly slam the door and I get the silence that I immediately should have had the moment I opened the door. How could they be federal agents of supposedly uncanny observational skills when they can’t even notice that their angry professor had already stepped inside the room? I make a note to send an email to their trainers.

Already regretting the additional time to grade their expectedly poor papers, I order the revision. The class heaves a collective sigh of relief. I remind them to use actual books and go to the Academy Library for research and not resort to tawdry google searches. In fact, there should be no resources cited from the internet. I wait for a student-sourced groan for me to chastise. To my disappointment, there was none.

I dismiss them and I wasn’t far behind in departing the classroom. While walking to my parking spot, I dial my husband’s number.

“Hello, darling. How was class?” my husband greets me with a cheery tone. I know he’s in the kitchen, just by the way his voice vibrates with elemental happiness; in his natural space and about to peel off the tiredness of his day through the preparation of our meal. Dinner is always the highlight of our day.

“Terrible and I have a feeling it’s about to get worse.” I tell him about Jack’s orders.

“My poor darling,” he tuts and I melt at that. Hearing him coo _my poor darling_ immediately turns me into a three-year-old boy who pouts more because he got attention. But I lean to it and consciously infantilize myself more. I can’t help it if I got one of those doting husband types. “I hope you won’t take long. I miss you here.”

“It will take long because that’s just how this day works,” I sort of whine as I settle in my car and start it. I connect my phone to the car’s audio so I could hear his voice all over. I spot Zeller a few feet back and I’m glad I’ve gotten in before he could rope me into conversation.

I quickly drive out.

“Do you want me to go to you? I can take a cab,” my husband thoughtfully offers. I deliberate. It would be good to have him wait outside. I would bury my head on that warm, broad chest and let the horror wash away.

“No,” I say and exhale loudly. I feel like I’m pouting. The mirror confirms that, yes, that is an adult-sized pout. My husband would find it adorable, though. He finds everything adorable about me.

If I said yes, my husband would be there in a heartbeat. He would drop everything. But he’s already settled in the kitchen and he’s better suited there to feed me when I come home. Maybe in the next murder, I’d ask him. So, I decide to let him stay home this time. I’m a thoughtful husband too.

“I feel crabby.” I pout. The car’s GPS orders me to turn right in 200 meters.

There is an adoring hum at the end of the line. “My dear husband is crabby. What’s to be done about that? This calls for your favorite, don’t you think?”

“Seafood marinara?” I ask, hopeful.

“Yes. Just the thing to get you sorted.”

“Crabsticks?”

I honk at a man who’s looking at his phone while crossing the street. The man gives me the finger. I volley back with another honk.

There is a long sigh from my husband’s end. “Darling, that was only one time, it was a tiny piece of shell. I will be very careful in handling the crab meat. I promise, there will be no offending piece on your marinara.”

“It hurt my tongue.” I scowl. I wish he was here. I would have gotten a kiss with this look.

“Apologies in behalf of myself and the shell. I see you still haven’t forgiven it. Alright, I will add the crabsticks but I will strip off that ghastly colouring.”

My husband abhors anything artificial when it comes to food but crabsticks don’t have miniscule fragments of crustacean exterior that hurt my tongue so…

“Thank you.” I signal a man with a golden Labrador permission to cross the street. He thanks me with a wave. “Tell me what you’re doing?” I love hearing the gorgeous rumble of my husband’s voice.

“I’m doing the mise en place at the moment. I’m preparing to make the pasta,” he replies, cheery as ever. I thought I would feel better to hear his voice all over the car but I just feel grouchier (is that a word?) because I want to be there in our kitchen right now and watch those elegant hands efficiently transform flour, egg, water and oil into shapes of solidified, chewy carbohydrates.

“I like the thick, paper-like ones.” I wait for my husband to indulge me, to say yes. He always does.

“Pappardelle. Alright. I was about to cut linguine. Thank you for telling me, darling.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, taking the praise proudly. I help in any way I can. “Tell me more, baby.” My husband purrs upon hearing my endearment, just as I know he would.

And I am given rich, dulcet imageries of the ingredients: their scent, color and taste. I hear the swift slash of steel on wood as onions and garlic are diced. Pappardelle, I am told, came from Tuscany, from the word pappare, which means to eat with child-like pleasure.

My husband would make a marvelous chef on television: he is classically handsome, extremely skilled (especially with the knife), and possesses a very extensive knowledge in culinary history. He would be famous. But I’m not one to share. My husband should only have one audience: Me. Maybe our daughter, on some occasions. But mostly me. People can eat my husband’s food; we do host dinner parties. But only I should be privy to how he prepares them. Because how he rhythmically moves around the butcher block, elegantly plates the dishes, and wields his knife is incredibly sexy. It’s kitchen ballet, an elegant dance of slicing, pouring, kneading, tasting. It sounds ordinary but trust me, it is extremely, extremely erotic. I will never allow anyone to see that, lest they get any ideas.

I reach the crime scene, a house in an affluent neighborhood. I park behind a police car.

I tell my husband I’ve arrived. Sorry I’m missing out on the sauce-making.

“Everything will be ready when you get back, darling,” my husband assures me. I love my husband. I tell him so.

“I love you more,” my husband answers and I know that he does. Just for the fact that my husband spoils me rotten and concedes everything to me. I, on the other hand, do not concede that easily. I have firmer hold on my husband and do not let him indulge in every whim. But that’s just maybe because his whims are on the unconventional side.

I hang up and I miss him immediately. I hope there isn’t too much blood spattering, it will just remind me of my marinara.

My FBI jacket sits crumpled on the passenger seat. It’s not technically FBI business yet so I’m glad I don’t have to wear it. It’s supposed to make me authoritative but it just looks like it’s swallowing my frame. It did, however, fill my husband’s shoulders wonderfully. I’m reminded of the time I made love to my husband with him wearing only this jacket. It was early morning. He had just come from the shower, with just a towel wrapped around his waist. I was still in bed, just watching him. He saw the jacket, wore it while making direct eye contact to me and dropped the towel. I quickly pulled him to bed and ravished him, hard and fast. The thought of defiling FBI property drove me absolutely insane. After, my husband had playfully kissed and thanked the jacket for the fantastic sex.

I push past the nosy people gathered on the street.

I flash my FBI badge to the officer manning the yellow line and I get through. The officer introduces me to the lead investigator. It’s Donovan. Good. I know him. He knows I require privacy. The crime scene is in the master bedroom. I wait by the bookshelf down the hallway while they are clearing the scene from forensic examiners. They are local police examiners; the FBI’s would only be brought in if I declare it as a serial killer’s work.

I look at the books while waiting.

Once I’m alone with the victim, I’m hit with a deep, profound sadness that sent a chill to my chest. I’m empathizing with the victim, not the killer. This is rare. She had been depressed for months and often dismissed to stay in the room while her family dines downstairs. The room echoes her quiet sobs and they tingle in my ears.

Her body displays the MO of the Baltimore Hammer. He sneaks up people’s rooms through the window, attacks women in their beds. Usually no sexual assault. He punches their throats to render them speechless and hits their temple with a hammer’s face. All the victims bear a red circular mark. There certainly is one on her right temple. But her death is not caused by a blow from a hammer.

I close my vessel. I thank the woman and I hope she’s in a better place.

I go to the bookcase and pluck out a book. Tales of the Unexpected by Roald Dahl. I hand it to Donovan.

“What was their dinner?” I ask Donovan who looks clearly puzzled by the book on his hand. But he is used to my oddities by now. I’m thankful again that I got Donovan. It is a small mercy.

“Some kind of leg of lamb or pork, I think. It’s still on the table. Husband and kids ate without her. Husband said she didn’t join them coz she had a headache. Why?”

“It’s not the Hammer. The leg is the murder weapon. Husband hit her in the head with it when it was still frozen. Roasted it and served it for dinner. Might have used incognito to search for the Hammer’s MO so it could match with the crime.” I tap the book. “Find the story named Lamb to the Slaughter. That’s how the husband got the idea. Forensics will back up the formation of trauma to the head.”

“Really, Roald Dahl? He writes serious adult stuff? Didn’t he make Willy Wonka and those other kid’s books?”

“He did both. I’m done here.” I have zero time and patience to orient this poorly read man to Roald Dahl’s body of work. I pass the sobbing husband. I wish I threw the book to him instead, if only to disrupt the Oscar-worthy performance he’s currently displaying. I feel sorry for the kids, boy and girl, both aged roughly around 7 to 10 years old. I hope there’s an assigned guardian, an uncle or aunt and that they’ll be good to them.

I walk out and wish that my most favorite person in the world is waiting for me behind the line. I console myself that I made the right choice. Pasta marinara is waiting. Husband is waiting.

I’m back in the confines of my car and is about to dial my husband when Jack calls me. Interrupting me again. Word travels at the speed of light for Jack Crawford. Congratulates me on a job well done. I don’t connect the phone to the car’s speakers. I don’t want Jack’s voice all over the car.

“See, it didn’t take long,” Jack says in a sickeningly upbeat tone. “Now, you’re heading home to Hannibal, I just took out a little bit of your time.”

I wanted to retort that three hours (I calculated the commute) is not a bit of my time. I should have been home hours ago, watching my husband cook, getting aroused. Now, our dinner is delayed.

“Send him my regards. Bella and I are looking forward to our dinner this weekend.”

Then and there, I want to tell him it’s cancelled but I know my husband wouldn’t like it. He already did the food shopping for Saturday. And we like Bella, she’s great company. Jack is lucky he has Bella for a wife or I would have cancelled the dinner immediately. My husband would have understood.

“Yeah, bye, Jack.”

I drive in silence, still feeling the woman’s sadness lingering inside. Roald Dahl’s The Lamb to the Slaughter began filling my head. I read it when I was a teenager. There’s this perfect, dutiful wife who doted on her husband, offered him his slippers the moment he stepped inside the house, that sort of thing. Then the husband told her to stop attending to him and sit still because he has to tell her something. I remember feeling the tension bleeding through the page. The husband told her he’s leaving her. There was no reaction from the wife. She just headed to the kitchen and said she’ll prepare dinner. As if nothing happened. The husband insisted he doesn’t need dinner, didn’t she hear him say that he’s leaving her? The wife took a leg of lamb from the freezer and hit it to the back of his head. She put the leg in the oven, went to the butcher’s to establish an alibi, talking about how she’s on an errand to get meat for their dinner tonight. Then she came home, found her husband, cried (like that murderer husband cried), called the police and fed them the lamb leg. The police assumed the husband was hit by a metal club of some sort. The wife smiled.

The idea of having an unhappy home hits me. My imagination provides me scenarios of having that in my own home and I want to sob at the thought. My husband is the best person I’ve ever known and that must have been what the couple thought of each other too, that they are each other’s best and favorite, before they slowly succumb to neglect and inattention. I cannot imagine coldness from my husband. I’ve seen him direct it to someone else, a human equivalent to a pig or a cow, but never to me. He warms at the sight of me.

But would we remain the same, five years, ten years, twenty years later?

We have recently celebrated our five-year anniversary. That couple’s marriage is more than a decade. Would my husband also club me when he tires of me?

I would prefer if he just kills me like that, quick, blank and final. Heartache spared. I do not think I could live knowing I’m not loved anymore. Death is better than having a life without my husband’s love. The urge to sob is strong.

I’m stuck in traffic even if I’m only four blocks away from the house. If I just leave my car in the middle of the road and just walked home, would I get a pass because I’m FBI? It’s not an abuse of power if the world owes me for the time taken away from my husband, is it not? I’m just taking it back.

A low ebb of melancholy still envelopes me and I want to overcome it. But it’s hard without him. I imagine him beside me in the car, regaling his wonderful, exotic adventures in faraway countries. My husband is an erudite, cultured, well-traveled, highly-educated man and I’m so fucking love with him. I’m proud that he’s mine. I feel desperate. Like I urgently need to feel his love right this instant. This is what the wife had felt until she is succumbed by debilitating melancholia. She is just desperate for his love.

I hear honking. People are honking at me to get moving. I surge forward so fast, it’s possible I got whiplash. I drive so fast; I might get a ticket from one of those automated speed tracking devices hidden in the traffic light. I don’t care.

Finally, I’m home. The feeling is still there but it will go away, my husband will remove it so.

Warm, strong arms wrap around me and I slot myself to the base of my husband’s neck. He smells wonderful, the scent is seemingly created just for me, heady combinations of musk, bergamot and the unique, masculine essence of the most beautiful man that I have ever known.

The sadness is slowly seeping away because I’m home. In my man’s arms.

“My darling, you didn’t even visit the dogs. It must be that bad.” My husband murmurs it with absolute tenderness and I feel the tendrils of the sadness get thinner and thinner.

He’s right. It is bad. I always visit our dogs in the library before heading to the kitchen.

“Need you more. Husband killed wife. I felt the wife.”

Our bodies are swaying. I don’t know how I got in my husband’s arms so fast but everything else was a blur and time only starts and counts when I’m with him.

“It’s rare for you to empathize with the victim. Her melancholia must have strongly lingered on her person and overridden your access to the killer’s perspective. I imagine it must have been quite a profound sadness for you to feel, my dear.”

I kiss the mouth that always says words that resuscitate my heart. Then, I settle again on the curve where neck meets shoulder. Comfort myself there.

“She wept tears of blood and kept weeping,” I say softly, “Until her tears dried, until blood ran out.”

“A love once brimming then cruelly emptied. Loved and needed no longer. Even if I do my absolute best to say it to you, I will say again and again that I would always want you to need me, darling. And I will always need you. Love you. I do not know if this sadness has made you to harbor your own fears about our love but our love is distinct from everyone else. We will not have their mundane problems. Do you believe that?”

“Yes, I do, I do believe that. Very, very extraordinary.” I sing the last part to the tune of Frank Sinatra’s L-O-V-E. This takes us back to our wedding, dancing privately in this kitchen while our wedding party sways in revelry in the main room. I drape my arms tighter.

“We are.” He smiles at the memory and cups my face and brushes a lock of hair from my forehead. “You do not need to do this, my love. It is hard to see you suffer.”

“But I turn to you after I go through it. You like that.”

My husband nods. “I admit I do get the satisfaction of having you turn to me and feel that I am the medium that makes the dreadfulness seep away. As long as I am still effective in removing that from you then I will not question you of that choice.”

“Very effective. You are my only salve,” I say, rubbing my nose to smooth skin. I feel better now, on solid ground. “I love our kitchen hugs.”

“I do too but I’m afraid there is a record of kitchen hugs that have caused many a kitchen fire.”

“Spoilsport.” I frown because the hug is coming to a close.

There is a nice laugh from my husband and I capture it by kissing him slowly, telling him how I will always need every bit of him: heart and mind, body and soul, beast and beauty.

Part of me thinks that we could find a way to be rid of my empathy. Or we could just choose for me not to use it. Quit the FBI, fix boats. But I know it is part of my husband’s fascination to me, my vessel that is capable of holding and releasing darkness. It allowed my husband to see that there is another person who can understand him, someone who can be delightfully wicked with him.

I stay in the FBI if only for the reason that I have access to the FBI’s investigation on the Chesapeake Ripper. To have insider’s information and divert them to another direction if they get too close. The Cheasapeake Ripper is part of our family. I’m merely looking out for us; the mental torment is a small sacrifice.

Kissing my husband, while always an excellent idea, will not quieten my rumbling stomach.

“Have dinner with me?” I smile and he smiles back with pleasure. Seeing me smile instantly plants one on his own face, like he couldn’t help it.

“Go ahead to our table, darling. I will just fetch the bowls from the oven.”

I walk to our dining room and I see the blanc already in the decanter. I pour a hefty amount to each of our glasses. Our place settings are facing each other, as usual. My husband’s gorgeous face is a great appetite stimulant and we love to watch each other savor our meals. Talk about our day. Make plans. Start our nightly foreplay.

I frown. It feels wrong that I’m sitting across him. Too far away. I drag my husband’s entire place setting and position it beside my own.

“What do we have here?” he inquires when he sees the change. He drops our bowls side by side. At least it saved my husband the trouble of going over to his chair. Good thing he always serves me first.

“Too far away,” mumbles I, looking down at my bowl. The pappardelle perfectly fold the fruits of the sea, squid, tuna, shrimps, clams and of course, my crabsticks. Soft cherry tomatoes are dotted all around like tiny rubies. The serving is generous. My marinara is the exception to my husband’s rule in making each plate intricately designed. The noodles are curled simply in a white, ceramic pasta bowl. None of the usual fuss and frills.

When my husband sits beside me, I put my head on his shoulder. Whisper in his ear: “Baby,” I say, tilting my head and giving him my most boyish, most disarming smile. “Feed me?”

He melts, of course. Wraps me closer in his arms and peppers my forehead tiny kisses. “Of course, my poor darling.”

_My poor darling._

I know my husband is thinking that I might be showing regression. But he loves when I flash my baby blues and tell him to care for me. My husband will take any form of tenderness that he can take. He starves for it.

I’m forgetting what I’m supposed to be sad about.

I watch his elegant hand spear a piece of shrimp with a fork and gently pushes it to my mouth. I pull it with my lips and poke it to the side of his mouth.

“Messy, messy,” he tsks and bites his half of the shrimp.

I shrug, smiling through the shrimp. “Just sharing.”

I’m being fed the pasta with a piece of cherry tomato at the end. I pucker my mouth and slurp the tomato with a swift, sucking sound. A burst of juices spread inside. I allow the juices to dribble from the side of my mouth. I lick it clean with what I think passes as an innocent, coquettish look. My husband’s swallows audibly. Then, I slowly lap the thick pasta to my mouth, my tongue pushing it inward. My husband releases the pasta from the fork and catches the end with his mouth. We meet in the middle and kiss, red sauce smearing our lips.

A crabstick, red and fat is proffered up to me and I mouth it with a grateful smile.

Grabbing a fork with my left hand, I stab a piece of tuna and offers it to his lips. I watch him take dainty bites.

“Thank you,” he says, primly. I add the pasta. I love how my husband masticates, love how his jaw muscles clench. How his lips glisten from the sauce.

“Crabstick?” I say after I’m fed my own forkful of pasta and juicy, spiced shrimp.

His nose wrinkles but changes that disagreeing expression it with a smiling nod. How he indulges me so.

I pluck one from my plate with my fingers and pop the end to his lips. He bites and captures my pointer and middle finger, sucking them slowly. I sigh at the sight.

“Wine, please,” I say because seeing him do that is giving me ideas on where else I can put that talented mouth to proper use. Later, I tell myself.

In seconds, the rim of the wine glass is smoothly set between my lips and I take a long, languid drink. He pulls out when I give a slight raise of my eyebrows.

The food is delicious, of course, and the wine sublime, but it does not compare to the taste of his skin.

I lick a long, wine-soaked stripe from the curve of his neck to the light stubble in his jaw.

“My love,” he bemoans, because he knows where this is going, “there is not a week, a seven-day period that we have successfully completed a meal. I have hoped that this week would be it.”

“In the spirit of being contrary, I vow to never let that happen,” comes my reply. He laughs, pure and true. That earns him a kiss on the check. He kisses mine with a fond hum.

I turn and seat myself fully on his lap. I hover over him, savor his look of full worship for a moment and kiss him long and full. I could never get enough of him. Never, never, never.

“Darling,” he says, breathless after I release him. “We have to finish.”

“Why?” I ask licking the underside of his upper lip. It tastes of the blanc’s flavors of lime, nectarine, and white peach. Smells of tarragon and vanilla. My delectable doctor.

“In respect to the food. And you’re still hungry.” Even he doesn’t sound like he’s sure of his answer.

“Hunger doesn’t always correlate to the call of the stomach, baby.”

“Hmm, I think I’ve heard this case from you before.”

“And?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

A fond smile. “I lost that case, I think. But I will not, tonight. Finish your dinner, you petulant man. You haven’t had a proper lunch.”

I indeed did not have a proper lunch. I left my lunch bag at home so I had to resort to eating a granola bar. 

“We have to do it now, it’s bad to have sex with a full stomach,” I reason out, knowing I’m wrong. We do, all the time.

“We do. All the time,” he reminds me, visibly affected by my ministrations. I drop a sheet of pasta in his mouth and his cheeks hollow as he slurps it whole in one swift pull. God, he’s so hot. “Makes one think if there is a correlation of food to sex in this household, yes?”, he asks, a little breathless. 

“It does, when you make it. You’re so sexy when you cook, you know that?” I slowly grind my husband’s hardness against me, hoping he will finally concede. I thought I would be able to hold it, too. We’ve had sex too many times to count, I could wait it out for a couple of minutes, but there’s as if an urgent need to feel his love, his body, his entire devotion, to me. Something that happened earlier that made me feel a sorrow so devastating that only he can burn away.

“Happy to hear that,” he says, looking very strained. Closes his eyes, as if to block further stimulation. He’s too far gone now and judging by the state of his pants, he’s very, very stimulated. But he can possess steely resolve and he is employing it in this situation. How frustrating and exciting at the same time.

“That is why you should still finish your dinner. Because your husband so lovingly prepared this for you. And you made him eat crabsticks.”

“Fine,” I deflate and punish him by returning to my seat. I pout my mouth off. The crabsticks were good, what is he even talking about? My husband draws out a long, seemingly exasperated breath.

“I’ll just have to finish this bowl all by myself.” I grab a fork, stab a squared piece of squid and chewed loudly. I want to moan because it was perfectly seasoned and the texture has just the right give: not too soft and definitely not rubbery. Every morsel in my marinara was flavoured with care, not just thrown together in the pot. I almost regret feeding him crabsticks.

“Petulant boy,” he says and I halt my loud, overdramatic chewing. Because he shouldn’t have had said that. He sees my expression and his face is frozen with the realization.

I smile, wide. Like the Cheshire Cat.

He says my name, a stern: “Will.” A plea. But he can’t take back what he just said.

I let go of my fork. Down the last of my wine. Face him fully but drop my eyes, downwards, where punishment should be implemented. I drag my fingers through the soft tendrils on the base of his head. Put my left elbow on the edge of the table, caging him.

“Daddy thinks I’m petulant.” I look up. His eyes were the color of a blazing afternoon dusk.

“Darling.” His brows are adorably narrowed.

“I’ve been a bad boy, didn’t finish my food. Daddy should make me.”

I stop caressing his hair. He visibly shivers. I see the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end. Being all hot and bothered is very becoming on my husband.

“Daddy takes it back,” he rasps then shifts in his polite, clipped voice: “Please, baby, darling, my love, not here.”

“I don’t know,” I sing-song. I sweep his bowl to the side. Take the wine bottle, empty its contents to his glass and place it in front of him. I wrap my hand around the neck. Stroke it up and down with deliberate, suggestive strokes. “I’m just trying to be good to my Daddy. He’s been so good to me, cooking for me, feeding me, fucking me real good and real hard. Sometimes I pass out because Daddy’s so good at fucking me.”

I swirl a finger to the bottle’s mouth.

My husband gives me an open, pleading look to stop, please stop. _But you started it, baby. You called me boy._ I say with my eyes and he nods with silent acceptance. He shouldn’t have said a word strictly used in the bedroom. There was an agreement. Rules had been made. I’m just following rules.

His knuckles are white from clutching the edges of his chair. Shallow breaths hitch from his mouth. I want to kiss that, steal that air until I am his oxygen but I refrain. Daddy needs to learn his lesson.

“Daddy should put all that delicious food in my mouth, one by one so he could teach me how to eat like a good boy. Then, when he’s done, he should put something else in my bad, petulant mouth. Do you know what it is?”

“Food, just food,” he tells me, saying the wrong answer. “Darling,” he adds, hurriedly, back to being a pleading husband. “I really did just want us to finish dinner. I misspoke, out of fondness. _Please_.”

But I do not break rules. I shake my head. He can’t do anything; he’s not allowed to touch himself. Only I have the power of movement. I feel a quiet sense of power knowing I govern his autonomy. He could only move if he comes, that’s the rule. I could leave him in the dining room and he would still stay. And wait for me, wait for my orders. After, he would not change. He would still adore me, feed me, love me.

“What should be in my mouth, Daddy?”

“My cock,” my poor husband whimpers. A sheen of sweat gleams on his forehead.

“Sorry?”

“My cock in your mouth.” I wish I could record how his aristocratic accent sounds while saying this. People would get hard just by hearing these words alone. But he’s exclusively and legally mine and therefore only I should bear witness to his erotic majesty. 

“Is Daddy gonna teach me how to suck cock, too?” I lean forward and whisper to his ear. “Will Daddy make me use my tongue, so Daddy’s big cock is wet and warm before his boy takes it all in?”

“Yes,” he rasps, eyes following the bottle. I suck my cheeks in and slide the bottle’s mouth into my own. Throw my head back as I swallow its length. The neck disappears as I open my throat. I breathe through my nose, misting the curve of the body. I remove it and make what I know is an obscene, choking sound.

He gives a reverberating moan. Eyes wild and desperate. Licks his lips and twitches his nose.

“Daddy loves getting his cock sucked, doesn’t he? Just like this. Loves how I take it all in, deep in my throat, choking me, making my eyes tear up. Daddy’s so proud that his boy can take all that cock in my little mouth. Daddy would fuck my mouth hard, won’t you, Daddy? Especially if it’s been a bad mouth.”

“Yes, Daddy would. Baby,” he looks at me now, eyes full of the ache of being fully stimulated in the mind but not in the body. “Touch me.”

I turn his chair so we’re face to face. I lean forward until our faces are mere inches.

“Daddy can fuck my mouth the way he fucks me in the ass.” I whisper roughly. “Daddy shouldn’t need to be gentle because I’ll just take it and swallow it. Especially because I’ve been naughty. It’s only fair, I made him eat crabsticks.”

I give him a peck on the lips and he groans, low and primal as his body stiffens then his hips spasm upward. My husband comes with a short shout and his hands purchase my shoulder for support. I embrace him and kiss his red, swollen lips, his burned cheeks, his closed, fluttering eyelids.

“Baby, I’m sorry, are you alright?” I say and worry that I might have been too harsh.

My husband shakes his head. Looks at me with worshipful eyes. “Never apologize for making me come.” We both laugh softly. “Lesson learned that a slip could actually lead to a stumble.”

I go to the kitchen and walk back to the dining room with wet wipes and a brown paper bag. Dropping down on my knees, I gently clean my husband.

“Thank you for making me feel better.” I say because I do. He still loves me. Desires me. I made him come even without having to touch him. After all these years, I am still his absolute world.

His face softens even more after my declaration. He pulls me up and puts his hands on my waist, pulling me to his lap. “I wore the plug,” he says with a glint in his eyes.

“You’re wonderful,” I say softly, getting wrecked at the thought of him having the foresight to know exactly what I need. I imagine him cleaning and preparing himself. Inserting the plug while I was off somewhere that I now can’t remember. My beautiful, beautiful distracting man.

“Let’s finish dinner, my love.”

Food is important. For him, cooking for me is an expression of his love and I should give the act and creation the respect it deserves.

I go back to my seat and place my head on his shoulder once again. Wrap my hand around him and stroke his hair. He does the same to me with his other arm. We feed each other without the need to make it sexual. There is a certain tenderness to just simply giving each other nourishment. Give each other fuel, supply life.

We clean up. Set the kitchen to rights. Turn off the lights. Say goodnight to the dogs. Climb up the stairs with hands clasped together. We make love in our sex room and after, we take a shower. In our sleep clothes on our bed, we read. Always touching. Giving soft kisses. Minds never straying from thinking about the other.

My mind is clear, it has forgotten the memory of pain. What happened today, the people I interacted with, and the events that I participated in are all washed away.

Time with my husband is magnified and held sacrosanct.

Time with him is when I truly live my life.

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal is in my head 24/7 (that includes dreams and nightmares) so it's bound to make me type silly stuff. I just LOVE THIS SHOW. And I love the fandom *waves*
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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